


anyone can be ornamental but not everyone can be a witch

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2329667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wanda Maximoff wants to look more American. She wants to look like the girls in magazines.<br/>She ends up looking like a weakened corpse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	anyone can be ornamental but not everyone can be a witch

**Author's Note:**

> aka the "the only way I can remember what happened to me, much less talk about it, is if I project it onto someone else" fic

Wanda peered at her enviably voluptuous curves with a critical eye, plucking disparagingly at the smooth coppery skin on her muscular thighs. Things really were different in America. Everyone in New York seemed so trim. She ought to fit in- she wanted to fit in. Well, that was easy enough to fix. Surely she could just stop eating.  
She had no knowledge that this terrible choice would lead her down a dark and dangerous road, one that would come very close to ruining her life...

"Wanda, you ought to try this." Pietro said one day at breakfast.  
She never eats breakfast anymore. "Leave me alone."  
She could feel the hurt radiating from him as if it was her own. Oh, but wouldn't he be impressed when he saw how trim and American she looked!  
Training exhausted her. She felt so strange afterwards, as if she stopped moving, her heart would cease to beat.  
When she drank five glasses of ice water in lieu of lunch, the cold ate at her bones.  
At night her stomach bubbled like a boiling pot. Determinedly she placed her palms over it and forced herself to sleep.  
The next morning, Pietro eyed her with concern. "Why aren't you eating, Wanda? Is everything all right? I can dash down to the deli if you feel homesick and bring you some cholent."  
Dizzy, she grabbed the edge of the chair to steady herself.  
"Pietro, dear brother, I am fine."  
Her head felt odd, as though she was a balloon and somebody had lost the string. She convinced herself to pace.

As the days went past, she couldn't stop shivering. She wore a sweater over her costume and pulled her cape on as a shawl. Had it always been so terribly difficult, she wondered, to pull together enough power to cast a hex? Had her head always swam afterwards? Surely reducing one's frame solved any problem that one might have! She wiggled her wax-cold fingers to send the blood back into them and clutched a heating pad to her aching, throbbing stomach as she trudged determinedly towards the training room. The pressure of her jacket collar made her shoulders hurt with every step. Natasha had invited her to see the premiere of the last Hobbit movie, but Wanda was sure there were more important things in life than friends. She was constantly starving, and fighting it filled up her brain.

"Giant robots are rampaging downtown!"  
Halfway through the battle, the jittery weakness and headachy nausea that had been churning within her finally overwhelmed her tortured frame.  
Black spots flickered in her vision  
Still, she threw out her hands, cast one last hex-

"What is it?"  
Pietro had left the battle immediately to shield his sister from the action. Now he stood by her bedside.  
She did not look gossamer or ethereal or like spun glass; she looked half dead.  
Tony Stark peered at the holographic monitor and clicked his tongue. "Abnormally slow heart rate. Dehydration, electrolyte imbalance, reduced bone density. Low blood pressure, anemia... severely depleted blood glucose... irregular heartbeat. All of these readouts are an absolute mess. Pietro, it seems like she's starving herself."  
Pietro shook his head. Wasn't he Wanda's twin, the person she loved best in all the world? "If she was sick, we'd know. I'd know."  
Steve raised a hand. "Question. Have any of us actually seen her eat? And an apple or a granola bar doesn't count. Neither does steamed chicken with vegetables. Who here has seen Wanda sit down and eat a real proper meal?"  
It turned out that Wanda was a consummate actress; she'd been lying to everyone this whole time, saying things like "I had yogurt with Natasha," or "I stopped by the kitchens earlier, when Bruce was there." And they'd fallen for it entirely, just the way their enemies did. Her illness had made her see her friends as enemies.  
"Wanda, my sister," Pietro murmured, kissing her dry papery skin. "I've failed you. I'm so sorry." He lifted her and cradled her to his chest.  
Usually she's solid and soft, a reassuring presence in his arms. Usually when he picks her up he feels calmer at once; she slows his jittery mind with the warmth of her breath. Today she's cold, her heartbeat uneven as she draws in shallow, labored breaths. He feels as if he holds a corpse. Her weight no longer anchors him. He's scared she'll disappear if he lets go.

Someone's changed her into her favorite red silk pajamas, pulled the blankets over her in just the order she likes.  
"I can't get warm."  
In an instant Pietro is slipping under the covers with her, drawing her soft trembling frame into his arms.  
She lets out a shaky sigh and nestles into him.  
"Wanda, Wandushka..." Kisses fall as soft as sunbeams on the side of her neck. For the first time in days she forgets how plainly horrid her body feels.  
When her stomach lets out a rumble of protest, though, he turns on her with a steadfast smile. "You need to eat."  
"Should I really?"  
"If you want your strength back. Only if you want to be able to protect me and fight at my side. Would you rather be a pretty American twig, or our wonderful witch? It's up to you. Well, not really, it isn't. You're not thinking clearly- you're very ill. You'll feel better in a few days, I promise."  
She curses him out in Yiddish and reluctantly begins to spoon food into her mouth, while Pietro untangles her wild curls in just the gentle way she likes, long dexterous fingers scritching at her scalp, and massages argan oil into the brittle locks to keep them from breaking while she sleeps.  
The food is gone before she even notices. She struggles to get up. "I ought to exercise."  
His arms wrap around her, the gentlest of restraints, in a grip that she knows will turn from silk to iron if she struggles. "Remember what I said about you being ill? I hope you know that's still the case. If you so much as want to take a bath, I'm carrying you all the way down the corridor. And note that I said bath, not shower. I won't have you doing jumping jacks in the shower and breaking anything. In the state you're in, your body wouldn't be able to heal." It's almost reassuring to have no choice.  
"Pietro?"  
"Mm?"  
"Do you think I'm beautiful?"  
He seems puzzled that she'd even ask that. "Of course you were- of course you are." Without the makeup she'd been carefully applying, she looked quite a fright. Her hair, usually so carefully brushed, was a frizzy mess; the mouth that had always smiled and sang was a tight pale line, and tears glittered in the eyes that usually shone with life.  
And yet she was still Wanda, still his twin. Still half his heart.  
"You never say it," she accused."You never even tell me I'm pretty."  
"Does the sky bend down its cloud-capped head and ask if it's blue? I'd never choose another woman over you, but prettiness is not the point. Anyone can be ornamental, Wanda. Not everyone can be a witch. I wish the part of you that knows that would come back."  
She smiles sadly, resting her head on his chest. She wants to sleep again. "I think I left it at home."  
"But it should cross the ocean soon. Won't it?"  
She knows she's been very ill, still isn't thinking clearly. But if she sleeps and rests and eats, some clarity should be restored. Instead of answering, she lets her eyes close.

In the next few days, it was as if all the pain from the weeks she'd sought to destroy her own body hit her at once. Everything felt sore and swollen, and she always felt terrifically grateful when Pietro offered to whisk her up a flight of stairs or rub her shoulders while she read.  
Pietro wanted her on Minnie Maud, but she was able to persuade him to let her eat less, even though everyone said her body needed more. Was it really better to be able to do things than to be pretty? If only her brain would work properly, she was really sure she'd be able to answer it!  
Then one day the other Avengers are called away on a mission, and  
The whole time it's like she forgets to breathe. Pietro is out there without her. He could be hurt, he could be killed, he needs her just as much as she needs him. And it isn't just Pietro who needs her- it's the world. Illness had been profoundly dull; she'd spent so many hours tabulating every bite, pacing in absent anxiety, but it was time to return to the bright hot wildness of genuine life.  
For the first time in ages she understands how things should be.  
I am not delicate, she thinks with a laugh. I am not pretty. Whyever did I think I had to be? You see, I am a hurricane of flame; the world has much to offer me. I am the one and only Witch, and I am strong.  
Now that her mind is clear, Wanda realizes she's absolutely starving.  
With an imperious uplift of her chin she sails across the room and rings for Jarvis. He comes at once.  
"Get me some cholent," she commands. "And, what do you Americans persist in calling it- ah. Blintzes. With berries and chocolaty hazelnuts. Also borsch. And- what is that strange thing with the raw fish and water weed?"  
"Sushi, madam?"  
"Yes!" She announces. "That as well!"  
A few hours later, exceedingly proud of herself, she rings for a snack.

When Pietro comes home, he finds the most wonderful sight: Wanda Lounging in an armchair, radiant in crushed velvet high-waisted red, with chocolate on her upper lip and pink in her cheeks.  
"Pietro, my brother-"  
Her strength hasn't come back yet, but still she scrambled to her feet and flung her arms around his neck. "I have made up my mind to eat and get strong. There isn't any reason to suffer more than one ought to in this world. Get me some toast." She stabbed it savagely with her fork, tears off a chunk, and devours the whole thing in three seconds flat.  
The next time they go into battle, she will fight by Pietro's side. Any girl can manage decorative with enough suffering, but Wanda is the one and only Scarlet Witch.

"Wanda, I've gotten you some fries," It was eight months later, summertime, and they were at a Shakespeare festival in the Catskills, where they'd just watched a troupe of acrobats perform a commedia-del-arte influenced Taming of the Shrew.  
Wanda felt a bit hungry after sitting through back-to-back shows, so she appreciated her brother's kind gesture. "Can I have some fish, too? They're selling organic salmon on a stick."  
In a moment Pietro was back with what she'd asked for.  
She raised an eyebrow. "Did you even pay for that?"  
When he shrugged sheepishly, she laughed and punched him in the arm.  
"What did you think of the shows, Wanda?"  
"Oh, well..."  
She didn't think about food, she just ate while talking, enjoying discussing something she loved with her favorite person in the world. She even had a cupcake and an apple, too. That made her glad. The sun was bright on the back of her neck and her soft curls tickled her face and she felt warm and happy and alive. I made it, she thought. I made it out. My body has gotten a little bigger but my life- oh, that's grown exponentially. She wanted to put her head in her hands and weep for joy, or howl with raucous laughter, or maybe both; she'd gotten out of Plato's cave-

"Help!"  
"The robot is attacking our set!"  
"OXFORD wrote Shakespeare's plays, you uncultured plebeians!" A balding man shouted as he chased screaming actors, some half-dressed, from the ruins of a trailer. He was riding in a giant robot fashioned like a marble bust.  
Wanda and Pietro, already halfway to assuming the postures of their alternate identities, looked at each other and shared a grin.


End file.
